King in Distress
by hannah.jpg
Summary: Lothíriel agrees to help Éomer find relief in a city full of women absolutely mad for him. The method is not what she unexpected, however.
1. A Miss is Kissed

_3 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel's morning had been perfectly unremarkable. She was just departing from Merethrond after an audience with Faramir and happily anticipating luncheon with her father when, without warning, a hand grasped her arm and brought her stumbling around a corner, her back pressed against the wall.

She blinked up in surprise to see a rather tall man staring down at her with a wild look in his eyes. He was vaguely familiar—they had probably been introduced in the last few days. She was certain she had met every single lord and captain in both Gondor and Rohan since the war ended, and she was equally sure she could not recall a single name, even under pain of duress.

"Yes?" she asked politely.

"You are Lothíriel," he said without preamble, and they were close enough that his deep voice seemed to thrum through her being.

"Indeed, I am." She waited a moment for a response—perhaps even his name, but he was distracted, glancing down the corridor as if looking for someone.

"Daughter of Imrahil," he said, turning back to her.

"Yes, that too," Lothíriel chirped. "And who are you, if I may ask?"

"Éomer of Rohan."

Ah. That would explain why he had the gall to handle her so. His hand still gripped her arm, and gently she lifted a hand to pry his clenched fingers away. His eyes were flitting back and forth, and she was reminded of prey when cornered by a predator.

"Your brothers speak highly of you," he said, boring his eyes into hers again. "You are as noble as any of them."

"How kind of them," she said dryly. "I ought to have guessed they used their own virtues as a standard of morality."

He ignored her witticism. "Would you help a man in desperate need?" Éomer was looming over her—it was almost difficult to think. No other man combined so well height and breadth to fluster her in such a way, or even had the bearing of this king. He was very flustering!

"Perhaps," she said, "If it did not compromise my principles."

He frowned, and Lothíriel huffed in frustration. Did he suppose she had none?

"I am not going to _kill_ anyone, even if you are in such ' _desperate need_ '," she explained. "Really, I will help if I can, but it must be within reason."

"Oh—I require no such thing, I assure you. 'Tis a mere trifle."

"Then tell me your need."

Éomer was glancing down the corridor once more, and as her curious eyes followed his, she heard footsteps approaching, and the lilting voices of females.

"It would be best if I show you," he said, and before she could speak he grasped her face in his large hands, tilting it upwards before kissing her fiercely.

Lothíriel's sense fled. She had never before been kissed like _this_ —his lips moved against hers with positive fervor as his beard rasped against her chin, and her body responded to him in the strangest way. Her hands were limp at her sides, and her knees numb. Hot flutters started in her belly, which she had never felt before, and before she realized what she was doing, she had leaned into him, returning the kiss as best she could.

"Why—I never!" came a voice echoing down the corridor.

They broke apart, staring at each other. If Lothíriel had any shred of wit left, she wagered that Éomer was just as startled as she. The glance he gave her was curious, even baffled. His hunted look was gone, and his eyes were—well, they were a lovely shade of green, firstly, and perhaps a little heated.

"King Éomer, you are a cad!"

They turned as one, Éomer's hands drifting down to her shoulders as if to protect her, and Lothíriel saw the steel-haired Lady Amdriel with her insipid daughter on her arm, both shocked and the lady angry.

"A cad, madam?" he asked smoothly. "I am sure I do not know what you mean."

A cad? Had Éomer been flirting with Amdriel's daughter, then? And wanted Lothíriel to present a competition? A reason to cry off serious intentions? She was sorely tempted to stamp on his feet, but she could not quite move her legs yet, as they remained numb from their rather excellent kiss.

"Oh, you know what I mean!" Lady Amdriel was saying, her voice booming down the corridor.

"I am sure I do not," Éomer responded, his resonating voice carrying easily down the corridor. "Unless you are referring to your idea that I wish to marry your daughter—I can hardly be blamed for your own imaginings."

Lothíriel decided to at least wait to hear his explanation until she stamped on his foot.

"My _imaginings_? Well! I never!" And with that repeated exclamation, Lady Amdriel turned on her heel and swished out of sight, dragging her daughter behind her.

Éomer visibly relaxed beside her, and Lothíriel might have laughed to hear his sigh of relief. It was not such a surprise, she supposed, that he wanted to deter Lady Amdriel—Amrothos had been shaking the woman for years. The lady, the gossips said, would stop at nothing to gain the highest title possible for her daughter. And she had seen enough proof of that to believe it.

"Thank you," Éomer said, turning his attention back to her with a beaming smile. It was an awfully heart-wrenching smile—Lothíriel, who was not usually so affected by men, felt her knees go weak again.

"You are welcome," she managed to say.

"I would have explained before they came, but the lady walks faster than a soldier with a full bladder," he told her sagely, and then a horrified look crossed his handsome face. "Béma! Oh—I am sorry, I did not mean to say such a thing—I forget what I ought and ought not to say to ladies—"

She could not help herself, bursting into trills of laughter at his expression. "You are too like my brothers," Lothíriel said, when she could speak again. "You may speak of bladders all you wish, my sensibilities are not so easily offended." Oh, there was that smile again. She flushed, too aware of how closely they were standing.

"Good," Éomer said, with a hopeful light in his eyes. "Do you think she will tell everyone she saw us kissing?"

"Oh, I do not doubt it."

"Excellent! Then I thank you again for your assistance—now you understand my desperate need. I should be quite safe from the overzealous ladies now."

Lothíriel blinked up at him, tilting her head to the side as she studied his face. It was a nice face to study, but she forced herself away from her imagination to ask, "Do you truly think that you kissing one woman once will keep the others at bay? Once they observe that our relationship, or whatever they suppose, is not continuing—they will pounce on you once more."

Éomer groaned aloud, running his hands through his golden hair and mussing it entirely. "Oh, Béma…"

"Indeed. And anyway, I would that you not leave _my_ reputation in tatters. I am happy to help someone in need, but I must remind you of my principles. I do not go about kissing strange men, and I would rather not give the impression of it."

"I am sorry," he said, and his expression was sheepish. "I did not think—"

But she interrupted. "You were desperate. I understand."

Standing somewhat apart, Lothíriel tried to gauge the measure of this man. What would he do? His eyes were upon her, equally wondering as he gazed at her face. Her father and brothers spoke highly of the king of Rohan; though her personal dealings with him were limited to the last ten minutes, she was confident enough in her father's judgement to know she could trust him.

"You have been too kind already to allow my infringing upon your compassion," Éomer said at last. "But I have no other ideas for escape—I have scarce had a peaceful moment in this city! Might you have the goodness to continue helping me?"

"I might be persuaded," Lothíriel said, smiling.

"I promise I expect nothing of you beyond this facade. When I leave for Rohan, you needn't think of me again!"

She hesitated a scarce moment. "And you will not compromise me in any way."

"No! Of course not."

Though after that kiss, Lothíriel thought she might like to be compromised by this man… She shook this intrusive thought from her mind, lifting her chin. "Very well," she said. "I will pretend to be your—your devoted paramour, or however you want to call it."

Éomer laughed. "Devoted paramour! I like that. And I will be your...starry-eyed suitor."

"Oh! I have always wanted one of those!" she declared, joining him in laughter. After a moment they quieted, and their eyes met once more. Lothíriel felt sudden tingles crawl up her arms and shoulders. "Will you join my father and me for luncheon?" she asked abruptly.

He blinked at her, apparently taken aback by her notion. "If it is not intruding, I should like to! I have not seen Imrahil of late. But you need not tolerate my presence any more than you wish."

"Father will be delighted. He is always speaking of your many fine qualities—I daresay I could grow quite sick of you," she teased with a smile.

"I hope, for my sake, that you do not!" Éomer said, and with dancing eyes he took her arm through his, and they began to meander down the corridor. Lothíriel was not sure if walking beside him affected her more or less than standing. She was aware when her skirt swished past his solid legs, and it flustered her all the more. Would she be able to keep her wits about, enough to present a convincing appearance with him? Well—if her fear was being _too_ attracted to him, that should hardly be a problem for their deception.

Together they strode through the great oaken doors, pausing on the steps to feel the warmth of the bright sun. Though the remains of the battle on the Pelennor Fields were visible far below, no sense of dread or fear had taken hold of the city for quite some time, and Lothíriel felt keenly the strength of the man beside her. She glanced up at him, and was surprised to see that he was already watching her, a smile on his face.

"I did not realize I had chosen the prettiest lady in the city to be my accomplice," he said. "Fortune has smiled on me today!"

"Oh! You can save your flirting for when others are around!" Lothíriel laughed. "You need not convince _me_."

"Nay, I am only speaking the truth. There is—"

He was interrupted by the sound of giggling, and as one they turned to see a positive gaggle of young ladies, fans fluttering at their faces as they caught sight of Éomer on the steps ahead of them.

"Oh, for Béma's sake," he groaned, though quietly. "Lothíriel—"

"Oh, just kiss me," she said cheerily, running her hand along his arm, as if to be possessive. "You did not ask the first time—why bother now? It will be _most_ effective, I am sure."

Éomer laughed, and without pause she was drawn into his arms this time, and his nose nuzzled against hers.

"My," she managed to say over the pleasant turning of her stomach, "You really are going to play this convincingly, aren't you?"

"As best I can," he murmured, and his lips descended on hers.

Lothíriel did not know nor even care how the ladies were reacting to this show of passion; all her senses were given to the man holding her, gently teasing her lips and causing absolute coils of heat to spread once more throughout her limbs. Her arms wound about his neck, and she could feel the length of his body pressed to hers. It was not awkward, as she might have expected—but very, very pleasant.

How could she have gone through nineteen years of life without feeling this wondrous heat?

There was a pattering of slippered feet on the steps, the distant sound of a choked back whimper, and a wave of perfume. Then the noise faded away as they were left alone, but neither of them appeared to wish to break the kiss. Lothíriel certainly did not. She could live the remainder of her life in such a marvelous pursuit and be content.

To her utter disappointment, Éomer _did_ eventually release her. His eyes were shining brightly, and he smiled down at her as he slowly ran his hands down her arms before picking up her hands.

"You have saved me again, miting," he said softly. "I cannot help but quail at the strength of your spirit to endure such punishment for my sake!"

"It is hardly punishment!" Lothíriel said with a shaky laugh. "And you had best find another name for me than _'miting'_ ; I can be sensitive about my height! Or lack of it, I should say."

Éomer laughed, and taking her arm through his, they continued their course down the steps. "You are hardly short," he assured her. "Taller than most of the women of Rohan, to be sure."

"Well! I wonder how _you_ came to be, I confess."

He glanced at her with a grin. "I have asked that very question myself! When I was a lad I thought that I had been cursed, for when I was merely thirteen years of age I was taller than most grown men."

"Oh, goodness!" she exclaimed.

"I have come to terms with it," he said wisely. "And I now blame my Dúnedan grandmother. Height has a great many advantages, and now that I keep the company of Aragorn, Faramir, and your own menfolk, I do not feel such an oddity!"

"You are hardly an oddity," Lothíriel said with a wry smile. "From my perspective, that is—I have had cricks in my neck due to abnormally tall men all my life!"

"I am sorry for your neck!" Éomer laughed. "I had not thought this would be such a painful experience for you."

"Perhaps you ought to crouch," she said cheerily.

"'Twould be fairer to you!"

The white-stone street from Merethrond which led to the Sixth Circle was relatively deserted; most of the nobility were at their business, with the new king or their own lords. There were not many merchants, either—likely they had guessed the lack of customers and were selling elsewhere. Imrahil's house loomed ahead of them, and trying to control the flush in her face, Lothíriel rapped smartly on the iron bars of the gate, and a guard rushed over to open it for them. She was informed that her father was already waiting for her in the small dining chamber, and they hastened forward.

Luncheon was already on the table, but Imrahil had not touched it—he lounged in his chair, a bound book in front of his face. The book was lowered as they entered, and one of his brows quirked upwards.

"I am sorry for the delay," Lothíriel said breathlessly. "I met Éomer, and he—er—" She did not know what to say. Would they even tell Imrahil of their deception?

"It is my fault," Éomer cut in. "Do not blame Lothíriel."

"I was not going to blame her," Imrahil's voice was nothing short of tranquil. "I was going to thank her. Lady Amdriel stopped by not five minutes ago wanted to see Lothíriel, and I was _unfortunately_ forced to send her away disappointed. Nothing quite upsets my appetite like gossip."

Éomer and Lothíriel exchanged an amused look as he led her to her chair, and she sat at her father's left hand. A servant hastened forward to set a place for Éomer on Imrahil's opposite side. Her father folded the page in his book, passing it to the servant to take away.

"So," he said. "To what do I owe the surprise of your company, Éomer?"

Éomer's eyes flitted to her, and Lothíriel spoke up. "It is quite funny that you mentioned Lady Amdriel, Father. Éomer has been suffering at her hands—er, her ambitions, really. That is how we met."

"Oh?"

Another glance between them, and she busied herself with the asparagus to keep her cheeks from pinking. "Lothíriel has agreed to assist me in the matter," Éomer said at last.

"That is generous of you, Lothíriel," Imrahil said, cutting into a slice of cold chicken. "And to what end? I believe that Amrothos once jumped over a wall to avoid her—and landed in a heap of manure. Nothing so drastic, I hope. It is a terrible inconvenience for the laundresses."

Lothíriel pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. Éomer was grinning, and he said, "If you do not object, Imrahil—your daughter has agreed to allow me to pretend to be in love with her, to divert the attentions of Lady Amdriel and the other ladies of the court. They have become quite a nuisance, popping out wherever I go!"

Imrahil paused, turning from Éomer to Lothíriel, a single brow raised. "Is that so?" he asked mildly.

"Yes," she said, trying not to blush. Her father's sentiments were nigh on impossible to judge, and so Lothíriel smiled winningly. "I saw firsthand today how Éomer is suffering. I would be pleased to free him from his—er—admirers."

At her words, Éomer nearly choked on his wine mid-sip, and after setting his goblet back on the table, he gave her a wink. Imrahil turned back to him, but Éomer was perfectly composed, offering the same sort of reassuring smile as Lothíriel had.

"Good heavens," Imrahil grumbled. "I have all but forgotten what it is to be young. Lady Amdriel is a nuisance at best, to be sure, but to require such a diversion?"

"She tracked my steps all morning," Éomer said. "It was only after she saw Lothíriel by my side that she at last ceased—is that not so, miting?"

"'Tis true," Lothíriel said stiffly. She glared past her father at Éomer, who only smiled innocently. Oh, how she wished to be taller at that moment! She could reach her foot under the table and give the king a good, solid kick for his teasing. Imrahil fortunately missed this tense moment, being busy with his meal.

"Well," he said slowly, glancing up. "I suppose—as long as you keep a standard of decorum, there is no reason why Éomer should not be relieved of his, er, _troubles_."

Decorum! Lothíriel decided that word could be interpreted as they needed, and if they were careful Imrahil would not hear of any misbehavior. Her father detested gossip, and even Lady Amdriel's tittle-tattle would not reach them. She would warn her brothers, for they were not so isolated, but they would understand Éomer's need, to be sure…

Her eyes lifted from her meal, and she saw that Éomer was watching her. Another wink, and she quickly looked back down, hiding a smile.

The remainder of luncheon passed by more quickly than Lothíriel wished; Éomer was excellent company, even with her father there, too, and there was much laughter between the three of them. She could not help the knot of disappointment when, long after the sweet course had been concluded, that Éomer regretfully declared that he must return to Merethrond.

"Though the business there is far less enjoyable," he said, his eyes on Lothíriel.

Imrahil did not appear to notice this, but once Éomer had taken his leave of them in the courtyard (with a chaste kiss on Lothíriel's hand), he said wryly to his daughter,

"For a man that seems so reluctant to have the acquaintance of women, he certainly seems to like _you_."

"Nonsense," she said lightly, tearing her eyes away from Éomer's back as he disappeared through the gate. Her hand was burning where Éomer had kissed it, and she clasped her hands together as she smiled up at her father. "I am sure I am a necessary sacrifice to him, that is all."

"Hmm." And Imrahil said no more upon the subject.


	2. Attempted Retreat

_3 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

After briefly supervising her father's house and seeing that all was in order, Lothíriel was left to fill her afternoon as she wished. With Éomer and his titillating company gone (which pastime would be her first wish), she perched herself in her solar with a pile of embroidery. Lothíriel found that this was the perfect mindless task to leave her to consider what, exactly, she had agreed to, and to doubt it.

Éomer's plight she sympathized with; she had known of Lady Amdriel's ambitions for far too long to be indifferent. And as she recalled what she knew of this newly-crowned king of Rohan, her feelings for him strengthened—the man had suffered so much tragedy of late she wondered how he even tolerated Minas Tirith and its vivacious court. How could he smile at her at all?

That musing was lost as Lothíriel smiled to herself, her embroidery all but abandoned on her lap as she stared out the window to her father's gardens, barely in bloom. Oh, what a wonderful smile Éomer had! That much could endear him to her forever, and how in Arda could such a simple expression make her feel so warm from her head to her toes? If she closed her eyes, she could remember perfectly the feel of his lips on hers, and how the languid pleasure of it had muddled her mind utterly…

No! These were not the thoughts of a lady—Lothíriel's cheeks burned with embarrassment, though she was alone. The compassion she had for Éomer and her desire to help him must be her purpose. There would be no need for them to indulge in such kissing again, no matter how much she enjoyed it. Lady Amdriel would begin the gossip, and all they must do would be to confirm it by keeping each other's presence. No more. It would not do for Lothíriel to feel aught else for Éomer than mere friendship. He was seeking her help to _escape_ starry-eyed moonlings, after all! She could not suffer the same weakness for his handsome face as the other ladies. She must control her feelings, no matter how irresistible Éomer was.

For all her determination to be indifferent, Lothíriel was all fluttering nerves as she dressed for the feast in Merethrond that night. Pretending not to think of Éomer, she donned her most fetching frock: pale-blue silk, cut to accentuate her slender waist and sweep the floor elegantly where she stepped. Would he appreciate it? Or her hair, combed to hang in silky curls down her back? Did he like the scent of jasmine, which she applied to her wrists and throat?

"Good gracious, Loth," Amrothos said to her when she joined the rest of her family in the courtyard. They, too, were formally dressed, though whether Amrothos had combed his hair was definitely debatable. "Should I fetch a cloak for you? Are you going to catch a chill?"

"Very funny," she replied coolly, all too aware of the breeze on her skin which was normally not so exposed. But her frock was no more revealing than most which would be worn in the Citadel that night, and she comforted herself thusly. Amrothos, taking her arm as Imrahil at last said that they ought to go, was not similarly soothed.

"Are you intending to break so many hearts tonight?" he teased, a glint in his eyes. "Or one in particular?"

Lothíriel _had_ intended to tell Amrothos of hers and Éomer's charade. But irritation at his teasing now made the prospect of her brother's surprise was far more titillating…

"Do you know, Éomer and I were just speaking of you," Amrothos added cheerily.

"Really? And when was that?"

"Oh, two days ago, I think it was. He is, er, experiencing some courtly issues and I told him you may be able to help."

Lothíriel bit her lip to keep from smiling, giving her attention to the stone-flagged path to the Citadel lit prettily by torches in the early evening dim. So Amrothos had suggested her assistance to Éomer? And the king had been just desperate enough to take it. She wondered if Amrothos had suggested the method of her 'help', and rather doubted it. No, she probably did not need to inform her dear brother after all…

Her heart was beating out of her chest when they stepped into the brightly-lit feasting hall in Merethrond. The tall, white-marble columns welcomed them inward, reaching to heights that the flickering lights could not reach. Jewels glittered, men and women laughed loudly, and servants bustled back and forth with wine. But Lothíriel's eyes searched beyond this—she gazed at the front of the hall, where the tables were awaiting food. Éomer was too easy to find, especially as he stood upon their entrance. Even at this distance, she could see the merriment in his eyes.

"Take me to the front, please," Lothíriel said to her brother, unable to tear her eyes from the king. He was smiling at her, and it grew as she neared him upon Amrothos's arm. Past groups of people chattering, and absently dodging quick-footed servants. Éomer was dressed formally, in a moss-green tunic and with a black cape, trimmed with silver fastened to his already broad shoulders. What a sight he was! Lothíriel attempted to control the low swoop of heat in her belly, to little avail.

"Good evening, my lady," Éomer said at their approach, bowing low. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his lovely green eyes sparkling at her, challenging her.

"My lord," she murmured. She was sure her cheeks were pink. All the better for their pretense, she supposed.

"And what am I?" Amrothos said loudly beside her, startling Lothíriel. She had forgotten him so quickly!

"Hullo, Amrothos," Éomer recovered his wits faster than she did, though he kept her hand in his. "Thank you for bringing your sister to me."

"To _you_?" he asked in surprise. "But why—"

"I took your advice," the king said with a laugh, "Now shoo! Leave us in peace."

" _Shoo_?"

But Amrothos's indignant reply was ignored. Éomer pulled out Lothíriel's chair for her, and aware of his admiring gaze, she took it as elegantly as she could. He scooted his own chair closer to hers, causing tingles of nerves and attraction to spread across her skin. She could not quite meet his eyes; what would she betray of her own feelings?

"Goodbye then! I will search out someone _else_ to keep my company," Amrothos said, the huff audible in his voice. Lothíriel suppressed a laugh as she farewelled him in turn, and he stalked away back into the crowd, grateful for the momentary distraction. She must keep her head. She must!

"That takes care of _that_!" Éomer said cheerily, and he took her hand again. "Now, if we are to convince anybody that we are completely infatuated with one another, I am afraid you are going to have to blush far more than you are, miting."

"I did ask you not to call me miting, my lord, if you recall."

"Éomer," he corrected. "We must be on… _intimate_ terms, if you will. Aha! A very fetching blush. Excellent work, my dear."

Lothíriel began to doubt whether she would up to the task at all. His eyes drew her in too deeply for comfort, and they crinkled at the corners as he smiled broadly down at her.

"There," he said softly. "Keep looking at me that way, miting. We must be too involved with one another to invite questions."

"Must we?" she managed to ask.

"Oh, yes indeed. You see, if we are so nauseatingly smitten with each other, no one will even _wish_ to speak to us."

"I…I see."

"Yes. Do not look, but there is a lord approaching us from the southeast," Éomer whispered. "To speak to us, do you not think? Perhaps send by his womenfolk to make inquiries."

"Perhaps he wants to know how we came to know each other," Lothíriel said, catching onto his vein.

"Indeed! Now, are you wanting to be interrogated? I, personally, am not. Too many awkward questions!"

"Oh, I do agree!"

"Good. Keep your eyes on me," he said again, and his eyes darkened. "Lothíriel…" The way Éomer said her name made her stomach flutter, and the barest trace of a sigh escaped her lips. How did he do that, anyway? His face was nearing hers, and she felt his free hand trace along the edge of her jaw, and his thumb brushed against her lips. She could hear footsteps now, likely the man Éomer had mentioned, which stopped in front of them.

Éomer's lips pressed to hers, and the entire hall with its every inhabitant disappeared entirely. There was a rushing in her ears, and Lothíriel sighed again at the sheer pleasure of being kissed in such a way. Eventually he released her, perhaps a mere moment or an hour later, and Lothíriel quickly lowered her eyes. Indifferent, indeed! She was a fool to think she had the barest chance of not falling utterly in love with this man.

"Very good." His words were the merest of breaths, and she felt Éomer kiss her forehead lightly. "It seems our friend has departed. And looking a bit green, too, if I may say."

"And likely everyone else is looking our way, too," Lothíriel murmured. "That kiss may have been too much."

"I do doubt that. We are being left alone, are we not?"

A quick glance at the hall around them confirmed Éomer's words, though many eyes were gazing back at them. Some curious, some astonished, and some bitter. Her father was not facing them, to her relief. Lady Amdriel was especially open about her thoughts regarding them; she was simmering with resentment, positively glaring at everyone around her. Her daughter was nowhere to be seen, with surprised Lothíriel. Lady Madriel usually did not leave her mother's side.

"You cannot let your attention wander away from me _too_ often."

Lothíriel turned back to Éomer. He was leaning lazily in his chair, his eyes fastened on her with some unknowable emotion in them. She forced a smile.

"You are enjoying this charade far too much!" Lothíriel said severely, feeling warm at his attention.

"Oh, I do not deny it!" he laughed. "Not only can I enjoy shocking the Gondorian court, but I have an excuse to monopolize the attentions of the most beautiful woman in the city. I have no complaints!"

"Except those that drove you to these measures."

Éomer's laughter ceased, though he still smiled. "Fair enough, miting. Perhaps I should revise my words: I have no complaints any longer. Fate has appeased me."

"Fate is kind to oblige."

"More than you know." There was a weight of insinuation in his voice that she did not know, and she looked away. Lothíriel took a sip of wine with trembling fingers, chiding herself sternly, _do not let his charm overwhelm you_!

"Have you told others of our plan?" she decided to ask, keeping her voice light.

Éomer's response was delayed, and Lothíriel could not help looking his way in surprise. He normally responded so quickly, she wondered if she spoke wrongly. But no—he offered an easy smile and said, "No."

"No?"

"Not a soul! The more people we let in on our secret, the more likely it will be revealed. _Especially_ if one of those people is my sister, or my captain." His joke was so dry that Lothíriel gave a very unladylike snort, and promptly blushed with embarrassment.

"I was going to tell my brothers," she said. "But Amrothos was being irritable, and I decided I wanted to put his nose out of place. I think your shooing him away achieved that, and so I thank you!"

Éomer laughed. "I have had more practice shooing, of late!" he said. "But whatever did he do to irritate you? Ought we to call him back so I can shoo him again? For the sake of petty revenge."

"Oh! Do not tempt me." Lothíriel was smiling to herself, considering taking his offer before he leaned back towards her, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair and patiently interrupting,

"What did Amrothos do? I confess I am positively _perishing_ with curiosity."

She gave him a very unimpressed look, raised brows and all. "Melodrama does not become you, my lord."

"Éomer."

"Éomer, then! If you must know, Amrothos—well, he teased me about my dress this evening." Mortifying as it was to admit to him, Lothíriel flushed. Éomer would _have_ to be pleased about her excessive blushing, she was sure of it.

"Your dress?" he asked in surprise. "But whatever is wrong with it? _I_ quite like it."

Her flush deepened. Was it especially warm in the hall tonight? Lothíriel felt hot prickles across her skin, trying not to notice Éomer's eyes lingering on her. Perhaps the gown _was_ a bit revealing. Then again, beneath the initial embarrassment of Éomer's frank admiration, she felt a stirring of, well, pleasure. He was not merely pretending to like the look of her, she hoped.

"I am lucky you are so beautiful," he said after a pause. "It will not be such a surprise to the others that I have lost my heart to you, then."

Lothíriel determined to break the spell before she lost herself anymore. She lifted her chin and said flippantly, "You have already told me I am beautiful once tonight. If you persist, I may begin to believe you!"

But Éomer only grinned. "As you should—I have an eye for beauty, and an appreciation of it."

Oh, good heavens! He was impossible.

Presently supper was served, and to her it hardly came soon enough. With everyone involved with the meal, she relaxed—it was a welcome relief from their heady flirting. However, Éomer evidently had no intentions of falling silent. He engaged her by asking of her upbringing by the sea, and Lothíriel could not help herself—she chattered on happily about her father's palace, sailing in the Bay of Belfalas, and riding horses along the white sand beaches and cliffs laden with blooms in the summertime. She missed her home more than she realized; why else would she have taken such a chance to fill the king's ear with nonsense?

Though whether _he_ thought it was nonsense was unclear. Éomer's attention never wavered, and he rarely looked away from her. Lothíriel forced herself to dismiss this; he had asked of her home, after all.

"May I beg your company tomorrow?" Éomer interrupted, while the final course was being cleared away. It was late already; the sky outside the hall was dark, and the guests were yawning. Lothíriel, having spoken to her cousin the steward just that morning, knew that there would be no dancing that night—it would be saved until the final feast, before the men of Rohan would depart to return home. The thought gave her a strange feeling of loss, though she did not know why.

"Oh—certainly, I suppose," she said. "Are you not busy elsewhere?"

He grinned. "I have had enough of business. I would enjoy my last days in the city, with my, ah— _lover_ upon my arm."

"You would spend your last days breaking the heart of every lady in the city, you mean," Lothíriel corrected with a laugh.

"We see things differently, you and I!" Éomer said. "I will come for you in the morning, if it pleases you."

It _did_ please her; more than she wished. She could not resist him, even if she tired. All pretense of remaining indifferent to Éomer vanished in a thrilling haze. Lothíriel smiled at the man next to her, again the flutters in her stomach spreading a warm thrill to her limbs.

"I shall be waiting."

* * *

 _Thank you everyone for your kind comments on this story so far! They make me so, so happy. I hope ya'll continue to enjoy the story (yes, there will be tension in the future)(also it's six chapters total). Hugs and kisses to you all! :3_


	3. A Whit of Hobbit

_4 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel did not know what sort of pursuits Éomer had in mind for their morning. It presented a fair quandary as she considered what to wear. After several minutes she chose a frock of violet with a vested surcoat of dove-grey with sturdy half-boots, in the event that they were to do much walking. It was not as tempting as her gown of the previous night, but perhaps that was for the better; and anyway, she thought it was fetching enough. Lothíriel was just finishing putting a plait in her hair when she heard voices in the courtyard. Her heart began drum in her breast, and she skipped from her chamber, giddy anticipation overcoming her nerves.

As she expected, Éomer had arrived. He stood with her father in the courtyard, his usual handsome appearance causing a thrill to course through her. What an excellent morning it would be! She approached as sedately as she could manage and greeted her father with a kiss on his cheek, ignoring Éomer's raised brows in her direction as if to say, _No kiss for me_?

Certainly not! There was no one around to deceive. Lothíriel gave him a smug smile in return.

"You are looking well this morning, daughter," Imrahil said.

"Thank you!" Lothíriel said breathlessly. Éomer's eyes were upon her too, and she flushed, hoping it would not look too terrible with the color of her dress. Oh, good heavens—was she so reduced as to wonder if her blushes matched her frock?

"Did you partake of breakfast this morning?" her father asked of her. His brows creased as he studied her face, surely noticing her high color of eagerness. Perhaps mistaking it for ill health? Lothíriel gave him a reassuring and somewhat impatient smile.

"Yes, yes!"

"And you told the housekeeper you would be absent today?"

"Of course, Father! She knows the duties to be done." Her very tone was agony. Oh, would he not just farewell them and allow them to leave?

"Good," Imrahil said, nodding. "I was just inviting Éomer to dine with us this evening, if you do not mind."

Hastily Éomer interrupted. "I told your father I would leave the decision to you, in the off chance that you tire of my company."

Lothíriel bit her lip, keeping her bubbling laugh in check. "I do doubt that, my lord!"

"That is settled then," Imrahil said. An indulgent smile grew on his face, and he waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Now, be off with you before my daughter expires of excitement. Go on!"

Was she so transparent? She attempted a measure of dignity as she took Éomer's proffered arm, but his warm gaze met hers and she felt warmth steal over her, walking beside him without watching where she was going.

"Well, miting, I am afraid it may be a very dull morning for you," Éomer said, though his eyes were twinkling. "I thought to stay near the Citadel today, to be seen as much as possible. I would have very much liked to take you on a ride outside the city, but I doubt we would happen across very many courtiers in the wilds!"

"That is wise," Lothíriel admitted.

"Ha! I do try to be."

They stepped into the street, the gate behind them closing with a clang. The morning sun above was warm, promising a lovely spring day, shining brightly and causing the white stone of the buildings and walls to gleam proudly. Very few people were about, and none that Lothíriel recognized as nobility, but still Éomer held tightly to her. They were walking awfully close—but she was not going to complain.

Merchants were strewn along the side of the street, their wares kept under tents to lure travellers into their shade. Some sold silver, some silks and some spices; wares for the wealthier inhabitants of the city. There was one small girl selling fresh spring flowers out of a basket, and Éomer drew Lothíriel there.

"Oh, you needn't for _my_ sake—" she tried to say, but it was too late. He fished a silver coin from his pocket and gave it to the wide-eyed girl.

"Which flower do you think will be prettiest on my lady?" he asked the girl solemnly.

She squeaked in return. "Oh—the purple iris! They match her frock perfectly." And she gathered a handful of irises for him, but Éomer took only one.

"Thank you, little miss." Éomer was smiling when he turned again to Lothíriel, and with gentle fingers he tucked the violet blossom behind her ear. She flushed in return, and he must have noticed, for he grinned.

"The flower is pretty, but _you_ are beautiful."

"Really, Éomer," she chided as they continued their course down the street. "The girl is hardly going to spread your gossip for you!"

"I am not expecting her to," Éomer said cheerily, winding her arm through his once more. "Let us go to the citadel gardens. I think we will happen across plenty noblewomen there, and I have a mind to kiss you again."

"Éomer!" Lothíriel said, aghast, though a laugh was threatening. "What a thing to say! With no one around to hear, I mean."

He chuckled. "I am only speaking the truth, miting."

" _Do_ _not call me miting_!"

But her admonishment had no effect upon him; Éomer merely lifted her hand, kissing it quickly. "That will suffice for now. Let us hasten our steps."

It was not a long walk to the citadel, and with Éomer urging them forward they arrived in haste. They took the marble steps up, the expansive courtyard of Merethrond welcoming them forward. There were a few people about, wandering in pairs or groups, but none near enough to recognize.

They took the stone path winding southwards, passing staid guards until they reached the gardens. It was full of colorful blooms and lush greenery, and Lothíriel reminded herself to compliment Faramir on his management. Éomer's hand had tightened on hers, and his voice when he spoke was more solemn than usual.

"I wondered if I would ever see spring again."

Her heart wrenched as she gazed up on him, though he looked determinedly in front of them, as if to avoid meeting her eyes. His brow was creased. She had never seen him this way, though she had her brothers.

"And that should make it all the more beautiful," Lothíriel said softly. Éomer looked down at her, as if in surprise—he must have been lost in his thoughts. Then he smiled broadly, patting her hand.

"Oh, it is, I assure you."

"Good! Let us make it our objective to appreciate each flower individually, then—we shall have to be here quite some time if you are wishing to convince _every_ courtier of our devotion."

His mood had passed, for he laughed loudly. "I cannot, for the life of me, decide if you are teasing or not," Éomer said, squeezing her hand and drawing her nearer, until her hip brushed against his leg. Oh, what tingling! "Perhaps that is why I like you," he added.

He liked her! Her heart might never beat calmly again.

There were many blossoms to discuss in opulent and grave terms, but their game only lasted a few minutes—Éomer's scolding a rose for not blooming as soon as its fellows caused Lothíriel to giggle, and as soon as the first snigger escaped her, his pretend dignity, too, was broken.

"Perhaps it is for the best," Éomer said, still chortling. "No one would believe a pair of devoted lovers to be discussing mere flowers in such seriousness. Ah—what is that I hear?"

Lothíriel barely had a moment to give her attention to their surroundings to confirm that indeed, there were footsteps approaching, and just as she saw a swish of skirt turn a corner towards them, Éomer had pulled her into an embrace, his mouth pressing to hers.

There was a small gasp just beyond, and a hushed, "Oh, so sorry!" Then the footsteps hastened away.

She expected Éomer to release her then, but he did not. His arms around her tightened, and she stood on her toes to kiss him back all the better. Suddenly the day seemed so much warmer—or what that simply the heat between them? Lothíriel was rather becoming accustomed to the feel of his beard on the sensitive skin of her cheeks and mouth, and decidedly liking it. Her limbs seemed to go limp at the gentle touch of his lips, though he kept her from falling.

When Éomer pulled away at last, Lothíriel was surprised to open her eyes and see the lush gardens around them. She had forgotten where they were! His eyes were very lovely against the backdrop of sky above his head, and his smile made her feel the oddest of sensations: warmth in her breast, and churning heat in her belly. Good heavens!

"You are very good to kiss, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," he said softly, and she felt the vibrations of his deep voice from where their chests were pressed so closely together. She sighed in contentment, daring to push his stray golden hair, escaped from its knot, away from his face.

"And you are very good to be kissed by, Éomer of Rohan."

His eyes crinkled at the corner as his grin broadened. "I glad we have established this."

"Oh, as am I. You had best put me down now—if my legs lose any more feeling, I shan't be able to walk."

Obediently Éomer set Lothíriel gently on the ground, and she clutched his arm for support. He said nothing of this, though the amusement in his laughing eyes was clear as day. Well! She would not give him the satisfaction—she tilted her chin upwards, and attempted an appearance of complete nonchalance.

The winding path took them to an open lawn, where Lothíriel remembered playing with her brothers when they were younger. No such games were there now, though she saw with surprise two of the _perian_ sitting upon a bench, their legs swinging and a platter of fruit set between them. She had met them once before at a feast, but she had met a hundred other people that night, and could not recall their names. There seemed to be a disagreement, for their words could be heard as Éomer and Lothíriel approached.

"I don't think that's right, Pip," the darker haired _perian_ said. "Try peeling it again."

"I can't!" said the fairer. He was holding in his hands a pomegranate, attempting to open it, his brows creased with concentration. Lothíriel bit back a smile, and Éomer chuckled aloud. The darker of the two looked up to see them, his eyes alighting with happiness as he jumped to his feet, bowing low.

"Hail, Éomer King!" he said.

"Hail, Master Merry," Éomer said gravely. "What is troubling you this morn?"

"Pippin filched a snack from the kitchens for us to enjoy in the sunshine," Merry replied. "But, as it turns out, we haven't the foggiest notion how to eat any of it. We don't have these sorts of fruit in the Shire."

"I can show you," Lothíriel said, withdrawing her hand from Éomer's arm with a smile. "Do you have a knife, by chance?"

The fair hobbit's cheeks flushed as he gave her the pomegranate. "I didn't think we'd need one," he said. "Otherwise I would have—the cooks are busy today. Sneaking food was no issue at all!" There was pride in his voice.

"Pomegranates have a rather tough skin," she explained. "You can probably break through, given time, but it is much handier to cut."

"Here," Éomer murmured beside her, and she saw with surprise the leather hilted knife he held out to her. Where had that come from? It was probably best not to ask. Lothiriel took the warm hilt after only a moment's hesitation. Making sure that the _perian_ 's curious eyes were watching, she made four slices through the ruby-red skin with the knife. Then she pried open the fruit, exposing the seeds inside.

"Oh!" said Merry, his eyes wide. "It is like a pouch of rubies."

"It is our mid-morning meal, so don't bother waxing poetic," Pippin said briskly. "Now, how do we eat it?"

"You have only to remove the seeds!" Lothíriel laughed. "A spoon is preferable, if you are wishing to stay neat, but fingers work just as well. But you must be wary," she said in warning, returning the fruit to Pippin's outstretched hand. "Eating a pomegranate during a full moon will bring true love before the next."

"What?" Pippin blinked in surprise.

" _Really_!" Éomer said under his breath.

"Well—I haven't any proof," she admitted. "But it is what we in Gondor believe—or say, at least."

Merry was shrugging, and pried out several seeds before popping them in his mouth. "It is delicious!" he said. "True love or not."

"I quite like it," Pippin said, his mouth stained red already. "I wonder if it will grow in the Shire."

Éomer had picked up a second pomegranate from the tray, and copying Lothíriel's actions, cut open the fruit. He raised a brow at her, pausing. "Today is a full moon," he said.

"Yes, that is why I warned you."

"Are you going to partake?"

Lothíriel hesitated only a moment before taking the quarter Éomer held out to her, ignoring the teasing sparkle in his eyes. Tart and juicy as the fruit was, she was far more aware of the rolling sensations in her breast. Merry and Pippin had finished theirs, and were rummaging through the remaining fruit on the tray.

"And what is the superstition when two people share a pomegranate during a full moon?" Éomer asked after a moment. Lothíriel gave him a quelling glare, but the amusement in his eyes was too much—her lips twitched into a smile before she flushed pink and looked away.

"What is this?" Pippin held up a green fruit.

"That is a fig," Lothíriel said quickly, grateful for the distraction. "You can eat it whole, skin and all."

"My lady knows much about fruit," Merry said, smiling up at her, and she laughed.

"No more or less than most people of Gondor, I assure you."

"It is kind of you to help us, anyhow."

"The pleasure is mine!" Lothíriel had not realized just how charming the _perian_ were! It was no wonder her father spoke of them so highly.

"We will leave you to your repast," Éomer said. He was cleaning his knife with a handkerchief, and glanced at Lothíriel. "We have more garden to cover before supper."

"Then we had best hurry," she said. "Farewell, Masters Merry and Pippin—I bid you a good day." Cheery waves in return, and Éomer had taken her hand again, and they continued on the stone path. After leaving the lawn, they were enclosed within several blooming trees, the shade cool.

"I am not a superstitious sort," Éomer said abruptly, gazing down at her. Lothíriel found it difficult to hold his eyes, but how wonderful it felt for him be looking at her with such warmth! A smile grew behind his beard, and he added, "But I shall remind myself on the next full moon to consider my circumstances closely, and decide whether I have found true love."

"Indeed, you should. And I will do the same, for amusement's sake." Lothíriel said, only able to speak for deciding that he was not speaking of his loving _her_. Why, if he did, she would be too tongue-tied to reply at all!

"I wonder if our skepticism will prevent our finding it."

She laughed. "If not our skepticism—certainly our disbelief towards the superstitions of the world!"

"I shouldn't wonder if Fate does make things difficult for us, for our impudence," Éomer was grinning, and Lothíriel sighed to herself with pleasure. She couldn't care less about Fate, not while she was with him… But he was evidently unfinished with his teasing, for he declared, "I haven't given much thought to marriage. Perhaps the pomegranate will see to that, for me."

"Never?" she asked in surprise.

"Never before."

There was something odd in his tone, but Lothíriel could not gauge it. "I am quite astonished," she said lightly, her fingers clenching more tightly on his arm. "I would have thought—that is…I would have expected you to have a woman in Rohan."

Éomer was clearly taken back, blinking at her in his own surprise. "I do not!" he said. "For if I did, I would not need your charming company to keep the ladies away. I could declare myself quite spoken for!"

"Oh—right." Her face burned with embarrassment for her assumption.

"I will tell you _why_ I have not thought of marriage, however," Éomer said, and his teasing smile was back in place. He leaned closer to her, his voice lowering as if to confide a secret. "When I was young, my mother often told me the tale of how she met my father. She knew the moment she saw him riding into Edoras upon his stallion that he would be the man she wed—astonishing to believe, I know. But the story has stayed in my mind; and I suppose I am waiting for that same moment in my own life."

"O—oh?"

"I have always felt sure that I would know the woman destined to be my bride the moment I laid eyes upon her." His eyes were warm, so breathtakingly _warm,_ gazing down at her in a way that no ordinary man would. Lothíriel swallowed past her dry throat, and managed to say in a croak,

"You said you were not the superstitious sort, my lord. Now I hardly know what to believe of you!"

Éomer laughed, and the spell between them was broken. "Perhaps my mother is easier to believe than a fruit," he said.

"I daresay," Lothíriel murmured. "Then I must surmise that you have not yet had that—that _Fated Moment_ , if you will."

He pressed his lips together, hiding a smile. "Now, now, miting—we are hardly on intimate enough terms for me to confide that to you."

"Intimate enough that you persist in calling me ' _miting_ ,'" she said, not bothering to hide her scowl, which seemed to only amuse Éomer further as he chuckled.

"There are many different types of intimacy, my dear. We have yet to traverse through _all_ of them. Ah—oh, ow! Ouch!"

Lothíriel, disappointed and annoyed and not a little huffy at his teasing, was prodding him in the ribs with a finger, and he grasped her hand to stop her attack, frowning. "That is rather unnecessary!" Éomer said severely. "Why, if someone were to happen upon us this moment, they would not believe us to be lovers at all!"

"You are ridiculous!" she declared, unable to put all her feelings into words. But clearly he was not taking her strong words seriously, for Éomer gave a laugh.

"It is quite liberating to be ridiculous," he said. "Do you hear anyone approaching us?"

"No," she said stoutly. But she was wrong—a moment later, and a figure tumbled out of from behind a tree and onto the path, leaves in his dark, moppy hair and looking as astonished to see them as they were to see him. There was a moment of silence.

"Amrothos!" Lothíriel exclaimed. "Whatever are you doing here?"

Her brother straightened, brushing down his tunic and affecting a lofty air. "Same as anyone else, I suspect," he said testily.

"Ha," she said. "I have never once known you to stroll around gardens for mere pleasure."

"Perhaps because I never knew the pleasure before," Amrothos shot back, and she recognized his ears turning red—a sure sign of embarrassment—or temper. What in Arda could have caused him, her nonsensical brother, to be so sensitive to teasing? Lothíriel lifted a brow, but gave it up.

"Anyways," Amrothos continued. "I was just leaving. Good morning." He turned on his heel and stalked away from them. The back of his trousers were stained with grass, and Lothíriel's bemusement grew.

"I might suspect my brother of having a secret," she said thoughtfully. "If I thought for a moment that he could keep one."

Éomer laughed. "You might be surprised, miting."

Lothíriel glanced up at him, her eyes narrowing. "Do you know something?" she asked sweetly.

"Oh—no." He would not meet her gaze, and cleared his throat. "Let us continue on. The morning is waning."

"Hmm. Very well."


	4. The Art of Hearts

_4 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Éomer was totally, utterly, and completely lost. He could not pinpoint the precise moment, during the last days, when Lothíriel had captured his unwavering devotion—but if he had to guess, it was the moment he first kissed her in the corridor to escape Lady Amdriel. Something about the way the princess had fearlessly and breathlessly kissed him back had stirred something in him.

His own response to her had come as a surprise; at the moment their lips had meant, his heart had begun to beat out of his chest, which he knew now was entirely for her. Before, he had been burdened with the cares of sudden kingship, floundering in a foreign court he knew little of—now he lived to hear her laugh again, or to once more taste her breath on his lips.

He knew he was acting nigh on a fool, but he could not care. Even in the company of her father and brothers that night over the evening meal, he was hard-pressed to remove his attention from Lothíriel. There was a lovely pink tinge in her cheeks, perhaps lingering from their day in the city (which Éomer remembered with no small amount of pleasure on his part, either). It might have surprised him how often they had found one excuse or another to indulge in a bit of kissing, but with her clear willingness—he could surmise she was enjoying their deception as much as he.

Imrahil did not seem to notice the tension between his daughter and his friend. He kept up a lively conversation, full of anecdotes and quips that would have normally made Éomer laugh, but now only to smile at Lothíriel across from him. She would then flush darker and suppress a smile before looking away, as if trying to force herself to pay attention to her father.

Desperately Éomer wanted to know all that was lurking behind her large grey eyes. This peculiar princess was unlike any other woman he had met, and he was prepared to spend the rest of his life answering the mystery of her smiles.

After supper was finished (and Éomer had not a clue what he had eaten), they retired to a sitting room, comfortably furnished and blazing with bright candles. He sat beside Lothíriel on a settee, as near as he dared under her father's eye, but was forced to keep from touching her as he wished. Amrothos slumped in a chair, picking up a book from a table and rifling through it absently. Imrahil, after a long glance at his daughter—who was sitting primly with no indication of mischief—engaged Erchirion in a low conversation near the curtained window, their words not quite audible.

Éomer was tempted to touch the stray, dark curls that lay on the nape of Lothíriel's neck. He imagined what she looked like with her hair loose, all silky and smooth against the creaminess of her skin—

He was at a loss for words. What could he say where they might be overheard? She was wringing her hands in the folds of her dark blue frock.

Amrothos had stood, pacing in front of the hearth with his hands behind his back. Lothíriel was watching him walk to and fro, her brow creased ever so slightly, and Éomer realized how odd this behavior must be for her brother. He supposed he himself had never seen Amrothos any less than lazily unperturbed.

"Lothíriel," Amrothos said abruptly, and strode towards the settee in quick steps. He sat upon his sister's opposite side, and ever more curious, Éomer tilted his head to better see the prince. Amrothos, blinking as he realized the interest his behavior was causing, immediately cleared his throat.

"Yes?" his sister prompted.

"You might draw for us. This evening is going to be dull if Erch and Father continue discussing business," he said, shooting a glance towards his brother and father, as if blaming them for his boredom. Éomer saw a hint of bafflement on Lothíriel's face, but her voice was perfectly serene.

"I can draw for you, if you wish. Providing you bring me my satchel."

Amrothos positively jumped from his seat, and disappeared behind them before exiting the room. There was a brief silence as all stared after him, and then Imrahil resumed his conversation with his second son.

"I did not know you drew," Éomer said quietly, relieved for the relative privacy, though he knew it would not last.

"Oh, hardly well," Lothíriel confessed, gazing up at him with those lovely grey eyes and a hint of a smile. "Art is part of every young woman's education, whether she wishes it or not."

"Ah, a forced talent then. I will pretend it is wonderful, in any case."

She laughed, and Éomer's heart might have beat out of his chest.

Presently Amrothos returned, and Lothíriel set about putting a large sheaf of parchment into a stretched wooden frame, balancing it in her lap. She insisted that Amrothos prepare her charcoal pencil for her, and Éomer stifled laughter at the prince's annoyance at being used in such a manner.

"What shall I draw?" Lothíriel asked, to no one in particular. "You, Amrothos?"

Éomer sniggered to himself as her brother said quickly, "Oh, no! There are enough portraits of me to satisfy even all my admirers. Do someone from court—that you have never drawn before."

Lothíriel glanced over at Éomer, and he grinned to see her bemusement. It was obvious to _him_ Amrothos's feelings—a man in love rarely said so outright, after all. Part of him wished the prince would speak plainly, but there was hardly any fun in that.

"Lady Amdriel, perhaps?" Lothíriel asked, the laughter in her voice obvious to anyone paying attention. But her brother was not paying attention.

"Oh, no! But—perhaps her daughter." Amrothos was tapping his fingers restlessly against his knee, and his eyes darted from his sister to Éomer to his father and to the ceiling, and all back again. Lothíriel blinked, and glanced again at Éomer—but his only response was a shrug. He was not surprised that Amrothos appeared to have lost his heart—all the signs were certainly there. But that it was Lady Amdriel's daughter certainly was a surprise. Had Imrahil not said that Amrothos had once had to jump over a wall to avoid the incessantly forceful mother? What an odd match it was, then!

If Éomer doubted Amrothos's sentiments at all, it was soon lost as Lothíriel began to make smooth, even strokes on the parchment.

"You've made her face too long," he complained. Then, several minutes later, "Her eyes are rounder than that, Loth! Have you never seen Madriel before?"

"With different eyes than yours, evidently," Lothíriel said dryly. Her fingers were coated in black coal, but Éomer thought it suited her. As little as he could recall Lady Madriel's face to mind, the likeness seemed quite accurate, and he did not hesitate to tell Lothíriel so. She turned to smile at him, irritation at her brother fading from her face.

"You are too generous in your compliments," she said, her voice soft. "And Amrothos is too harsh—I must think my drawing only average."

He laughed, which in turn caused Amrothos to frown.

"Continue on, Lothíriel! Let us not be kept until after midnight for your dawdling."

Éomer saw the barest purse of the princess's lips as she returned her attention to the parchment. Her lips were beautiful despite her expression, and it was no difficulty to remember the taste of feel of them against his own… He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, leaning nearer to Lothíriel to gaze over her shoulder at her work, just able to smell her lovely, flowery smell he had already memorized.

Her fingers hesitated briefly before continuing again, her fingers which held the frame clenched. Amrothos gave a sigh of frustration and stood, resuming his earlier path in front of the hearth.

"You are making me quite nervous," Lothíriel said under her breath, turning her head slightly towards him. She did not cease her work, so as not to draw attention.

"Oh, am I?" Éomer murmured innocently, watching the color rise in her cheeks. "So sorry!"

A snort escaped the princess; an utterly endearing sound, he thought. "If you are sorry, then I am the moon!"

"'Twould not surprise me," he whispered. "You are certainly beautiful enough, miting."

"Shh!"

Lothíriel's hiss was well-timed—a moment later Imrahil was above them, gazing down at Lothíriel's drawing with a nod. "A fair likeness," he said. "But not a subject I expected, daughter."

"She was Amrothos's choice," she informed her father.

" _Lothíriel_!" her brother said in agony from the hearth.

"Your secret is safe with me, son," Imrahil said placidly. "Stay here with your sister and Éomer, if you please. I have business to review and Erchirion has agreed to assist me."

"Yes, Father." Amrothos's voice was positively miserable, and Éomer noted that the tips of his ears had turned red. There was a shuffling as Imrahil and Erchirion left the room, and it grew silent once more. Amrothos's pacing resumed, though now he muttered inaudibly to himself, brows drawn.

"I wonder if he was in the gardens with Madriel earlier," Lothíriel whispered to him.

"I would not be surprised one bit," Éomer said back softly, grinning despite himself. "He was terribly upset to see us, no?"

"Indeed," she smiled. "Now I wish to know all the details of their affair! I do not think Amrothos will confide in me, however—I would tease him far too much, and he knows it."

"I will ask him, then," Éomer offered. "I should like to see you tease him."

Lothíriel giggled, and he hushed her—Amrothos was glaring at them. "I was resting my fingers," she said quickly, and bent her head once more over the parchment.

Éomer was impressed at her pace and her skill—he no longer believed that she was average. Somehow she translated the sheen of Lady Madriel's fair hair, and the pale brows above wide eyes. Vacant eyes, Éomer had always thought, but he was being uncharitable. He needn't worry of Lady Amdriel's matchmaking any longer. A lazy smile grew on his face to think of the lady's reaction to her daughter winning the heart of a prince of Dol Amroth…

"Are you finished?" Amrothos asked impatiently several minutes later, once again sitting beside his sister. "Oh—oh, excellent work, Lothíriel! She is beautiful!"

This change was so abrupt from his earlier criticisms that Éomer lifted a brow in disbelief, trying not to catch Lothíriel's eye for fear of laughing aloud.

"Why, thank you, Amrothos," she said mildly. "I can be done, if you wish it."

"Thanks," her brother muttered, and grasped the parchment in his hands as soon as Lothíriel held it out to him. He did not look at them again, but stood, wandering towards the door as if in a trance. A moment later, and he was gone.

"Well!" Lothíriel said after a pause. "Father told him to stay with us."

"So he did," Éomer admitted, unashamedly grateful that they were now alone. He did what he had been wanting to do all night, and touched her, placing his hand on her back, feeling her warmth through her dress. She shivered, and his fingers trailed upwards to feel the soft skin at the back of her neck. "I can go, if you want me to," he said, half-heartedly.

"Oh, I do not want you to go," Lothíriel said, her lips twisting into a wry smile. "Though perhaps you should."

"But why? We can behave ourselves!" Éomer's voice was more confident than he felt, though to prove the point he moved his hand to the cushion beside her. Their eyes held for a moment, before she sighed and looked away.

"Of course," she murmured.

"If you like," he said hastily, hating that he had caused her smile to fade. "I—I quite enjoyed watching you draw."

Lothíriel's brows rose. "Good heavens! And who would you have me portray? If you choose another young, beautiful woman, I may find myself jealous!" Her tone was teasing, but Éomer hoped he did not imagine the truth behind it.

"Oh, not at all!" he said. "Draw me, if that convinces you of my intentions."

"You?" she asked, her lips parting in surprise.

"Why not?" Éomer asked indignantly. "I am not so ugly."

"Indeed not!" Lothíriel laughed, and the flush was back in her cheeks. "I would be pleased to draw you. Stay there—" And she moved to sit at the opposite end of the settee, her back against the armrest and facing him, tucking her knees to her chest to rest the wooden frame against it, now holding a fresh parchment.

"You could have stayed by me," he objected. The loss of her warmth and presence was too perceptible. She dimpled in return, her eyes on his face.

"Not if we wished to convince anyone of our good behavior," she said. "There is no one here to pretend our devotion to, after all."

Éomer felt like protesting further, but refrained. Now Lothíriel's eyes were travelling across his features as she bit her lip in concentration, and he suppressed the blush he felt rising. Béma! He hadn't blushed since he was a youth. What was this? Awkwardly he tried to arrange his long arms and legs into a better position, but mostly only succeeding in proving that the settee was a bit small for a man of his size. He tried to grin at Lothíriel, and saw to his disgruntlement that she was withholding laughter.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.

"Comfortable enough," he grumbled. "Do not make me regret asking you to draw me!"

Hastily her gaze dropped to the parchment, and she began scribbling away.

Trying not to move for fear of disturbing Lothíriel's work, Éomer itched. He might have adjusted himself after several minutes, if she had not been looking at him so often, likely to reference his position. Lady Madriel was fortunate not to be in the chamber whilst she was being drawn…

"Where did you get your scar?" Lothíriel asked quietly. Her eyes were presently on the parchment, though they darted upwards to him at his brief hesitation.

"Nothing so valiant as you are undoubtedly thinking," Éomer said with a chuckle. "I cut my brow falling off the roof of the royal stables in Edoras when I was a child."

"Oh! I was imaging it was some glorious wound, you know—or at least that you would claim it was. It is just the thing Amrothos would say."

"I cannot lie, not even for a joke."

Lothíriel smiled, and he offered one in return as she gazed at him. Then she said quickly, "It is a very handsome scar. You mustn't wonder why all the ladies are so enamored by you!"

"If they knew it was merely from a childhood mishap, they would not be so fascinated," Éomer intoned wryly. "I assure you, I am far more dull than they believe."

"Oh, I do not believe that for an instant! I am sure these past days with you have been the most exciting of _my_ life."

He lifted a brow at this confession, and Lothíriel frowned slightly.

"It is not such a strange thing," she said, as if to defend herself. "Most women have not the liberties of men to seek excitement, or the bravery of your sister."

"You are mistaking my disbelief as criticism," Éomer told her. "I find it strange to think of _you_ as having any life but an exciting one, with your—well, as you are."

"I try to enjoy what I can." Lothíriel's eyes were on the parchment again as she drew, and she added quietly, almost as if to herself, "And I try not to long for something more."

"You are not content?" Éomer asked, just as softly. She did not immediately reply, and he wondered if he offended her—but then she looked up again, and gave him such a beautiful smile that he forget what he had said.

"I _was_." There was an enunciation he did not understand, though she did not elaborate further.

The fire cracking in the hearth was the only sound for the next several minutes. Éomer was too caught up in his thoughts of this princess, and she too focused on her work to speak. It was a companionable silence, nonetheless. He felt no discomfort apart from the physical.

"There," Lothíriel said at last, and with a dimpled smile she returned her gaze to him. There was a smudge of charcoal on her nose, and she was utterly beautiful. She shifted to sit beside him again, and Éomer sighed with relief to move once more. 

"I hope you like it," she added, taking his look of surprise as dislike.

"I do!" Éomer said at once, and then he grinned. "Is it a fair likeness, then? I am afraid I know less of my face than you do, now."

Lothíriel bit her lip, glancing down at the parchment and then up at him again. "It is fair," she said with a laugh. "And now you will always know what you look like!" She removed the portrait from the board, and offered it to him.

"Oh, no!" Éomer held up his hands. "I do not need it. I have to live with my face, I hardly require a likeness!" She was laughing again, and impulsively he added, "You should keep it, miting. So that you may remember me and our exciting days."

Her lovely lips parted in bewilderment.

"And you may provide me with a drawing of yourself," Éomer said to her silence.

Lothíriel's lips pulled downwards, and he was discomfited to see the appearance of a frown on her forehead. "But—" She stopped, and swallowed, her eyes wide before continuing carefully, "But you said that—that after this, we would not need to think of each other again."

Béma! So he had. Éomer did not appreciate his words flung back in his face this way, and he matched her frown. A knot of unhappiness was forming in his stomach. "I am sorry," he said shortly. "I did not mean to imply—"

"Oh! Do not be," Lothíriel placed a hand on his arm, her warmth seeping through his skin as she leaned forward in earnest. "Oh, Éomer!" And there was startling agony in her face, and the knot twisted more deeply.

"I have forgotten myself," he said lightly. "I have grown too used to your company that I quite forgot that we—that we are only supposed to be lovers temporarily." And what indication had he given her that his intentions towards her had completely changed? None at all! His stomach twisted like a vice.

"I have made you unhappy. Éomer, I have no qualm of drawing myself for you. You must understand—I—" She was twisting her hands together, her materials and his portrait quite forgotten on the settee as her voice trailed off. Éomer did not know how to interpret this show of anxiety from Lothíriel, and frankly, he wanted to see her smile again.

Tentatively, he lifted her chin with his fingers, and her eyes fluttered to his, wide and grey and lovely. There was no answer to the question he was not sure he could yet ask.

"Lothíriel…" Éomer breathed. Her lips were inviting him, and she trembled at his touch. Could she care for him, more than her words led him to believe? He could not believe that her kisses were of a woman who whose heart was indifferent. _His_ certainly were not. She was leaning towards him, and he could taste her breath—

The door opened with a _crash_ and a _slam,_ and they broke apart guiltily. Lothíriel's face was scarlet as she stared at Éomer, but he thought she was no less pretty.

"There you are!" Erchirion's voice was sharp. "Where is Amrothos?"

"He left some time ago," Lothíriel said, standing and smoothing down her skirt. Éomer saw that her hands were shaking, and he hoped that Erchirion was not near enough to notice.

"The git," her brother muttered. "Well—Father is wishing to speak to you regarding the upcoming feast in Merethrond, Lot." And his eyes lingered on Éomer, as if to say, _It is high time you leave._

"I will go," Éomer said. He was not a little annoyed at their interruption though he tried not to show it. He stood as well, taking Lothíriel's hand and bringing it to his lips. He met her gaze, trying to convey what he had not said—but she looked away, causing his stomach to twist with confusion and disappointment.

What must she think of him?

The night air in Minas Tirith was cool and comfortless. Éomer strolled aimlessly back towards the Citadel and his waiting guest chamber, though it held little appeal to him now. It was empty; no one would be waiting for his return, unless his squire had decided to wait outside his door in eagerness to perform some errand. Éomer's sigh was whipped from his mouth by a breeze, disappearing over the plains below with no sympathetic ear to hear.

It was no wonder that Lothíriel had questioned him; that she had reminded him of his very words that they needn't think of each other again. He should not have said it—but it was the only way he had thought at the time to reassure the princess that he had no intention to dishonor her or her reputation.

Again, he wondered: what must she think of him?

Likely that he was a cad, as Lady Amdriel had called him—or at the very least, a man lacking serious intention regarding his own future. Had Lothíriel not been astonished when he admitted to not having thought of marriage before? That is was very much on his mind _now_ , Lothíriel of course would not know. How would he be able to convince her otherwise, with her opinion of him based only on their deception?

Had he known his attraction towards her would blossom into far more, he would not have kissed her that first day. And now he regretted it.


	5. The Wrong Words

_7 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

They saw little of each other during the following days; Éomer was unfortunately drawn back into councils and Lothíriel was kept busy, recruited to assist in organizing the parting feast for the soldiers of Rohan. She did not mind doing so, not really—but she lamented her removal from Éomer. For she found, when he was not near, her heart was more susceptible to the doubts which had begun to bloom.

He could not possibly think seriously of her. He had said himself that he had never considered marriage, and after all—they were only pretending their devotion. Éomer was kind and his company enjoyable—but he was only a friend, and so would remain. This stern reminder barely helped, and she readied herself for the feast with considerable nerves. She was both anxious and keen to see him again, and she could scarce sort of her own feelings. 

Lothíriel paid little heed to her surroundings in Merethrond, instead wandering through the crowd upon Erchirion's arm with her eyes flitting, this way and that—

Éomer was standing beside a pillar, his hands clasped behind his back and looking frightfully stern. Lothíriel's heart quailed at the sight—and to see the lovely, fair-haired, though equally grim woman beside him. Her knees began to quake beneath her skirt as Erchirion steered her in their direction.

"Hullo, Éomer!" Erchirion said, oblivious to the tenseness. "I have brought you my sister, as you so requested."

Lothíriel flushed warmly; the lady beside Éomer flushed red. But Éomer was able to gaze at her then, his usual handsome smile not quite reaching his eyes, though his expression was plenty warm as he took her hand from Erchirion.

"Lothíriel," he said, and there was a caress in his voice, though she felt he was reluctantly attempting to keep her at a distance. But he drew her near—not too near. "This is my sister, Éowyn; I do not believe you have been introduced."

"Indeed not," the lady said, and her voice was cool. "Everyone in the city is evidently aware that the pair of you are attached, and yet this is the first time you think it prudent to introduce _us_ , Éomer." Éowyn's bitterness was clear, and Lothíriel attempted a smile.

"I am glad to finally make your acquaintance," she managed. "I have heard much of you, from both my cousin and your brother."

Éowyn's eyes were now studying her intently; Lothíriel flushed, and without realizing she had clenched her fingers 'round Éomer's rather tightly. He cleared his throat, and said,

"Éowyn, you have already taken me thoroughly to task for my error—do not hold it against Lothíriel. She is innocent."

The lady's brows lifted in disbelief. Lothíriel's stomach began twisting with nausea and unhappiness; to be scrutinized in such a way would be regretful under normal circumstances; to have Éowyn's discontent so _clear_ made her eyes burn with unshed tears. Lothíriel hastily swallowed—why did it matter what Éowyn thought? Well, that she was Éomer's sister, of course—but herself and Éomer had no future. It was only a charade, and of course Éowyn did not know. Her resentment was unnecessary, but understandable.

"I would very much like to know your secret, Princess Lothíriel," Éowyn said ironically. "For in a matter of days it seems you have gained complete control over my brother—I daresay _I_ have been attempting to curb his behavior for years, and to no avail."

"I think you will find I have less power over Éomer than you may believe," Lothíriel said, and her voice was quiet. "I assure you, I have no ulterior motives."

There was a huff of derision.

"Believe her words, Éowyn," Éomer said sharply. "For I sought _her_ out, and I have happily been under her influence for these days, and would be so for every day to come."

Lothíriel flushed deeply at this, and Éowyn's lips pinched into a frown. There was a tense, silent moment—and Erchirion broke it, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Ah—well…er—"

"Will you take me to Faramir?" Éowyn turned abruptly to address Erchirion. "We may leave the lovers alone; it is for the best, I am sure." And without waiting to take leave of them, she took Erchirion's arm and steered him away, disappearing into the crowd.

Éomer gave a long sigh, running his empty hand through his hair as he watched his sister go. "Béma! I am truly sorry, miting, Éowyn is— _are you crying_?"

"No!" Lothíriel said, and her voice was thick. His face blurred as tears filled her eyes, and she bit her lip painfully, trying to clear them.

"Oh, Lothíriel, my sweet girl…" And he dropped her hand, pulling a white blur from his vest and lifting it to her face, cradling her chin upwards. Once the handkerchief dried her tears, Lothíriel was left blinking up at Éomer, drowning in his lovely eyes, so full of concern and affection…

"Éowyn is…confused," he tried to explain softly, tucking the handkerchief away. "And between you and me, she is a tad jealous. Like she said, _you_ have exhibited far more control over me than _she_ ever has."

"B—but—this is all fake!" Lothíriel said, her voice wavering. "You should have told her, Éomer, _really_ —and not just for my sake. She is unhappy!"

He still held her face, and he frowned thoughtfully as his thumbs stroked her damp cheeks. "I trust your insight," Éomer said softly. "I will tell her, as soon as I can."

"Thank you." And Lothíriel felt a surge of relief—to know that she did not _really_ deserve Éowyn's censure—at least as she understood it. The impulse to bury herself in Éomer's arms for comfort nearly overwhelmed her, and she stumbled as she held herself back, her gaze dropping from his.

"I did not mean to make you unwell," Éomer said. "Perhaps I should not have introduced the pair of you—"

"No, no; it is quite alright," Lothíriel sniffed. "Everyone would expect it, being a part of our false devotion."

A pause. Then, "I suppose you are right. Are you well enough to stay tonight? I can take you home, if you—"

"I will not retreat," she said. "But—but a breath of fresh air would do me well. I would not like anyone to know—to know that I—um, perhaps cried a little."

Éomer was smiling as he picked up her hands, bringing them to his lips. "You are no less pretty when you cry, Lothíriel, I hope you know," he said solemnly.

"It was foolish of me."

"I do not mind one bit. I was glad to have a chance to use my handkerchief; my manservant insisted I take it, though I was sure I would not need it. Now—to the gardens—"

Lothíriel leaned into his strong arm as much as she could without either drawing undue attention to them as they made their escape, or to alert Éomer to know _just_ how much she relied upon his strength and goodness. She had been purposefully forgetting that this would be their last night…and then their charade would be over, and she would not see him again for a long time; perhaps months or years. And when that day came, he would have a queen with him, for every king needed a queen…and Lothíriel did not think she would be able to bear the sight.

"You are quiet."

The green lawn of Merethrond stretched before them, and their steps shuffled softly on the smooth stone walkway. Lothíriel took a shuddering breath, forcing a smile for Éomer, who returned it.

"I am only thinking," she said.

"It is not a night for thinking!" Éomer said gaily. "It is a night of celebration. It started rather badly, though. Hmm—it may be best if we start over, what say you?"

Lothíriel laughed. "Shall I call Erchirion back? And must I return all the way to my house to begin again from there, or—?"

"Nay! That will take far too long, and I am not wishing Erchirion's presence at this moment." They wandered around the fountain, drawing further away from Merethrond with its glittering lights and noise. Then without warning, Éomer stopped walking, and releasing her hand, swept into a very deep bow.

"Princess Lothíriel," he said in opulent accents. "You are lovely tonight, as ever. You grace the—er, night sky with your beauty."

Lothíriel hid a giggle, her previous tears all but forgotten as she swept into an equally frivolous curtsey. "King Éomer, your comments are handsome as yourself! I am fortunate to be the recipient of such flattery tonight!"

He took her hand as they straightened, kissing her knuckles, and lingering, as he grinned down at her.

"Better," Éomer said with approval. "I am happy to see you smiling again."

Now she really did lean her head against his arm as they continued onward and eastward, to the jutting point of stone which overlooked the city and the plains below, and the mountains far beyond. It was quiet here; no guards, and not a shred of proof that there were festivities in the citadel. Only the moon shone down on them, and the breeze whipped by peacefully.

Éomer's arm had slipped around her waist, holding her close as they paused at the furthest point. Lothíriel did not wish to return; she was feeling too warm, too reassured by his presence to return to Merethrond. It seemed simply too hostile; she did not wish to be questioned, to be scorned, to be resented for supposedly stealing the King of Rohan away from the eligible ladies…

"I missed you," Lothíriel said in a murmur, without thinking. "These last days, I mean. Like you said a few nights ago; have grown too accustomed to each other's presence. I…do not wish you to leave tomorrow."

There was a deep chuckle in his chest. "Shall I stay with you forever, then?" Éomer asked. " _I_ might not object, but others would—not least your father, for having another mouth to feed."

"Father would not mind," she said with a laugh. "He likes you too well."

"How comforting! But what of Rohan? Shall I send Éowyn back as queen?"

"Well—I can hardly comment on _that_ ," Lothíriel admitted. "But Faramir might resent it; he has every intention of making her his princess, you know."

"Oh, I know. Perhaps all the more reason or me to stay here with you—I have no other family in Rohan." His words were a bit wistful, likely more so than he intended. She pulled away from him slightly, offering a smile upwards.

"You will in time, I am certain of it. And you may visit us here as often as you wish; for soon we shall be your family."

"Oh!" Éomer said, and he laughed suddenly. "I had not thought of that—you will be my cousin! How very odd."

"Indeed." But Lothíriel did not much care for the thought, and she could offer no further response. After a moment Éomer turned her to face him, his eyes filled with smoldering fire and his brows creased with concern.

"You are troubled," he stated.

"But it is not _your_ trouble," Lothíriel said gently. "And anyway, considering that this feast is in your honor—and that _I_ have worked very hard to arrange it—you should probably return."

"I do not wish to return. I want to be here, with you."

Her heart thrilled at his soft words. Oh, goodness—his hands were warm on her back, drawing her nearer, and she gazed up at him feeling a hundred feelings in her breast which could not be differentiated. His eyes glowed, there was no smile—but his expression made her feel warmer than a thousand suns as he leaned down towards her.

"Éomer…there is no one around," Lothíriel managed to whisper.

"Good," was all the response he gave, and then he kissed her.

Her knees gave way, but his strong arms caught her about the waist just in time. Her fingers dug into his tunic, trying to steady herself, but mostly feeling the strength of his broad chest and the rapid beating his heart. A pace which _hers_ was matching, she was sure. Though they had kissed many a time before, this one was different—the heat and tingles and exhilaration were all the time, but now there was a tugging in her breast, and an insatiable yearning in her body—

Eventually he pulled away, his arms tense around her as he drew in a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered open, staring up at him. 

"Lothíriel…" he murmured, and his nose nuzzled against hers. She felt herself go limp again, but he was strong as ever. "Lothíriel," Éomer said again. "I…I do regret bringing you into this."

He _what_?

She found her footing, pulling away from him as she felt her heart hardened and steel within her. "You regret this," she repeated stupidly.

"Well—yes."

Lothíriel released him, her chin lifting high as she gazed steadily at him. Éomer's expression was nothing short of confused, but there was a tick in his jaw.

"That is unfortunate," she said. "For I do not regret it at all! Even if my heart is broken for the remainder of my life, I cannot _ever_ regret you." And with her eyes burning anew with even more shameful tears, Lothíriel picked up her skirt, and began to walk briskly back towards the Citadel.

Éomer called her name after her, saying something she could not hear—for her ears were ringing as a sob racked her body, and she ran.


	6. A Relieving Resolution

_7 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Éomer chased Lothíriel as far as the silver fountain, but she was too quick and he too startled. And the sight of a lovely lady, both daughter of a beloved prince and in clear distress, did not endear him to the guards of the fountain. Despite his rank, he was sternly stopped and questioned, and Lothíriel was able to disappear.

He was allowed to return to Merethrond at last, and his eyes wildly searched the crowd for his princess. No luck—and his temper wavered with anger.

How could he have been so foolish? Where had his wits gone, that he somehow thought it prudent to tell the woman he loved that he regretted her? Not that he had _meant_ to convey the sentiments which she had understood, but neither had he been quick enough to explain himself to her. Éomer merely wished they had begun differently than embroiled in deception! Then he might prove to her his constancy, his devotion, and his sincerity. He had lost Lothíriel, and it was of his own making.

Really, it could not have gone more badly.

Éomer deduced that Lothíriel must have fled, for she could not be found anywhere. But Éowyn could, and when she was left alone for a moment as Faramir was dragged aside for some business or another, Éomer approached her with his temper barely in check.

"Oh! I did not expect to see you again so quickly," Éowyn said, her eyes shrewd but her words quiet. "I saw Lothíriel depart the hall not twenty minutes ago; what has happened? Have you offended her?"

"I'm hardly the only one," he growled. "Éowyn, how could you treat her so shabbily?"

His sister stiffened slightly, and she waved her fan delicately at her face. "I would ask you the same in regard to me! I did not realize that your falling in love would separate you from me so thoroughly."

Éomer's jaw twitched with withheld anger. He and Éowyn normally got along very well, but the last weeks had strained them somewhat. Her disguise, her nearly-dying, their uncle slain, and finally her turning to Faramir and him to Lothíriel had prevented any of the resolution which was so desperately needed in their relationship. Unbidden, Lothíriel's commendation of earlier that he tell Éowyn of their deception returned to him, and knowing too well his princess's keen wisdom, he let out a long breath, running his fingers through his hair.

"Éowyn," he said softly. "You have misunderstood the nature of things between Lothíriel and I."

This startled her, more than he expected, and she remained silent throughout his explanation. Putting it to words, Éomer's stomach sank as he realized his own reproachable behavior—it was no wonder Lothíriel thought so little of him! There was so much he could have done differently; not only to curb the interests of Lady Amdriel and her like, but to assure Lothíriel that his feelings were not as indifferent as she surely believed.

"Well," Éowyn said after an awkward silence, when he had finished. "I—I did not know."

"That was the point," Éomer said dryly. "No one was to know. Only Imrahil was informed."

"Imrahil?" his sister asked in surprise.

"Well, naturally—we did not wish him to think I was compromising his daughter nor trifling with her feelings."

Éowyn's lips were twitching upwards. "I can hardly believe he gave his permission," she murmured. "I am quite astonished by all of this."

"There is more yet—I truly did fall in love with her. And…I do not think she knows. Or would believe it."

A squawking laugh was quickly cut off as Éowyn held the fan to her face. Above the rim, her eyes were dancing, filled with tears of mirth as she regarded her brother. Éomer's annoyance flared.

"Well!" she said. "That is your penance for lying, then."

"You hardly have the right to judge—!"

But Éomer's angry protest was cut off by Faramir's return, and the subject was put to rest.

The remainder of the feast was bittersweet—but mostly bitter. In his newfound despair, Éomer yearned to depart early, wishing more than anything he might see Lothíriel again. Somehow, in that glittering hall, he became certain that she was his sole happiness—she _had_ been, at least, and he was loath to depart any city where she was.

His mood must have shown, for he was little bothered by the guests. That, or the excitement of the festivities outweighed any concern for him, in whom no doubt whatsoever was expressed.

Éowyn did continue to cast him strange, alternatively perturbed and amused glances from where she was mingling, and Éomer surmised that she must be in the process of both understanding and forgiving him. That was good enough, but he needed more forgiveness than from his sister. When he was finally able to depart the Citadel after midnight, he felt awake and alert rather than exhausted, and he fell into his bed with his thoughts in hapless disorder.

He wished to marry Lothíriel, and to have her companionship and insight and affection always; this much was more than certain. It was more difficult to consider her own feelings, and whether she might be persuaded to accept him. Éomer had sensed that her heart was not indifferent to him, when he had kissed her that night… Could she forgive him his blundering? He believed so; never once had he sensed that she had a propensity towards holding grudges—even her treatment of the indomitable Lady Amdriel had always been amusedly courteous, not spiteful.

The most certain thing of all was that Éomer could _not_ allow himself to be misunderstood, the next time he spoke to her. Even if it was two months in the future.

 _8 May 3019 T.A., Minas Tirith_

Lothíriel sat upon the stone railing of her terrace, sore but perfectly balanced, and gazing out at the city below. It was barely after dawn; she had not slept at all for the turmoil in her heart (and the shock of Amrothos's letter, which was less important to her at present.) Were someone to ask what in Arda she was doing in such a dangerous position, she would simply say that she was enjoying fresh air. That the air of Minas Tirith was not particularly fresh would be a moot point. But if she were to be honest, she was moping, trying not to think too much about the guests which would be departing the city, likely within the hour.

A long night it had been; hours of misery and regrets and confusion and doubts, and of loving Éomer with no hope of reprieve for their sudden breach. Despite the pride which withheld her from seeking him out in the guest-wing of the Citadel to apologize, she was desperate enough to sit upon her terrace for a final glance of him as he departed the city.

She was absurd, ridiculous, and foolish. But knowing so did not ease her pain one whit.

The sun was brightening the sky at last, and Lothíriel began to grow restless before the gate from the Citadel was opened. She could hear nothing else for the distance, but her heart began to pound in her chest like a drum. She nearly stood to retreat into her chamber, but there was no need yet—it would be quite some time before she was in danger of being seen. So Lothíriel waited to hear approaching hoofbeats, watching the turn of the street from the Citadel with shallow breaths.

Oh, she was a fool! Had he not said he regretted their deception? And here she waited eagerly, just to see his handsome face one last time, despite her expecting him to find a woman of Rohan to be his queen within the next months, and yet still willing to let him into her heart and to break it if he wished…

She was fiddling with a torn seam on the end of her sleeve when the noises of approaching horses drew near. Immediately Lothíriel glanced up to see a few horses turning the corner. She swung her legs from the railing to the floor of the terrace, ready to run—

"Lothíriel?"

Oh, no! Oh, _goodness_. Her face flushed red—how did she know his voice so well? There were brisker hoofbeats now, and Lothíriel jumped to the floor, placing her hand on the doorframe for her escape—

"Stop! Wait!"

She paused, turning her head slowly to glance down. Éomer was dismounting from his horse below her terrace— _what was he doing_? His men were proceeding at a much slower pace, still coming 'round the bend. But her eyes were all for Éomer, who walked tentatively forward, gazing up at her with an unknowable expression.

"Lothíriel," he said again, and his voice was hoarse. "I—"

"I bid you safe travel, my lord," she called down primly. "I hope your journey is uneventful."

"Well, thank you, but—Béma, Lothíriel! Let me come up. I need to speak to you."

Her heart was thumping out of her chest. Feeling her face grow quite pale, Lothíriel gave a base nod and sunk back against the wall of her father's house, suddenly and completely unsure—how could she have been so _stupid_ to be watching for him in full view! And in her dressing gown!

Instead of entering Imrahil's house through the courtyard, as she had mostly expected, Éomer instead took a deep breath and jumped, his fingers barely reaching and grasping hold of the base of her terrace. Lothíriel nearly shrieked in surprise, rushing to the railing and glancing down to ensure that he did not fall—but he was laughing at the expression on her face.

"You doubt me, miting!" He swung his long legs upwards, and within a matter of moments he was alighting the terrace railing, and standing tall next to her.

Lothíriel stared up at him. Immediately she wished she had worn a more attractive dressing-gown; this one was faded—certainly not one she wished Éomer to see. Her second thought was that he was smiling that smile she had fallen in love with, and her heart wrenched.

"Well?" she said stiffly, holding her hands awkwardly at her sides.

"I am going to miss you," he blurted.

Carefully she forced a smile upon her face, but before she could stop herself, she said, "Um, Éomer…if you, ah…if when you return in the summer, you have similar problems to your last stay in Minas Tirith…I would be willing to assist you again. If you need me."

He blinked down at her, his lovely green eyes full of confusion and hesitation. "What?" he said.

"If you need me to pretend to be your lover again, I will," Lothíriel repeated, feeling a hot flush creep up her neck.

But Éomer shook his head. "I do not want you to pretend to be my lover, Lothíriel," he said, his voice low, urgent. "Nor do I really wish you to be my cousin, if it comes to that."

"Ah—oh." It was all she could do not to show her disappointment. But she tilted her chin upwards, attempting to appear nonchalant, and likely failing.

"I want you to be my wife."

Lothíriel's heart stopped. Had he just said—no, surely not. "What?" she said in a shrill voice, and promptly blushed.

"I want you to be my wife," Éomer repeated. "I want to marry you. Today, if I could. Béma, Lothíriel! I think about you every single day! Every _hour_! I should not have said what I did last night, when I said I regretted bringing you into my situation...you misunderstood me!"

"I—what?"

"I meant that I regret beginning our relationship on a sham, in such a way that has somehow prevented you from thinking of me sincere. I am in earnest, Lothíriel. I knew from the moment I first kissed you in Merethrond that I wanted to marry you."

Her face was definitely hot now, and likely bright red. Distantly she could hear his men drawing rein below, muttering amongst themselves, but Éomer's eyes were boring intensely into her…how could he not know her feelings already?

"I told Éowyn the truth," he added carefully. "I told her I was in love with you and that it was no mechanism on your part, she was—confused at first, to be quite honest," Éomer said ruefully. "But in time she believed me, and has said she is not angry with you. She would tell you herself, but she is prolonging her farewells to your cousin."

Lothíriel blinked. "—Ah."

"Anyway," He appeared to relax now, and that charming grin lit up his face. "That is all I wanted to tell you. That I am sorry for misspeaking, that I do not wish to leave you so much I feel as though I might burst, that I love you desperately and want you to be my wife, my queen…I want you to be mine. Because I am already yours. I have been, for quite some time."

She let out a long, wavering breath. She could feel the tension between them now, and it hummed through her being with anticipation and heat.

"Please," he added, and his eyes were twinkling. "I forgot my manners."

"Well!" Lothíriel said at long last. " _Well!_ Really, Éomer! All these things, and you let me go on these last days without an indication of hope. For a gold crown, I could give you a sound thrashing, I really could!"

He laughed aloud then; a sound of relief and happiness and joy, which echoed easily on her small terrace. "If you are teasing, that must mean you forgive me," Éomer said after a moment, and he lifted his hands to pick up hers, drawing her near in an embrace. Her heart leapt into her throat, she could not speak— "May I kiss you?" he asked awkwardly, pausing before the fact. "I am forgetting my manners again."

"I suppose you may; since you have asked so politely."

And he did.

Lothíriel pulled away a moment later, breathless. "Éomer," she said. "I must tell you. Amrothos has eloped with Lady Amdriel's daughter. Last night—they left a note, and everything is in an uproar."

Éomer had dipped his head and was nibbling on her ear, sending shivers up and down her spine. He murmured in her ear, quite making her knees weak, "I am not the least bit surprised, miting. But why are you telling me this now? Could it not have waited? Or are you hinting to me you wish me to cart you away and marry you?"

"Oh—oh, _dear_ , I did not mean to imply—" Feeling hot, Lothíriel lifted his head and gave him a stern look. "I was merely telling you, Éomer. I thought you might gather some amusement from it."

"I _am_ amused," he said, and his green eyes were twinkling. "But shame on you for gossiping! For a gold crown, I could give you a sound trashing, I really could!"

"Gossiping!" she squeaked in indignation. "It is _hardly_ gossip; it is fact, and I shall have to endure Lady Amdriel's varying complaints and exhilarations all—" But the remainder of her sentence was to remain a mystery, for Éomer conveniently forgot his manners again and kissed her upon the lips without asking.

She did not protest.

Imrahil, bewildered by the large group of men which seemed to have congregated outside his courtyard, strode out into the sun utterly annoyed to be distracted from his morning business. But his irritation soon faded, for through the iron bars he saw that these men were Éomer's. The departing party from Rohan had evidently been delayed.

"Good morning!" Imrahil called to the captain. "Where is Éomer? I should like to farewell him properly before he leaves."

There were snickers from the men, and with a sardonic grin the captain pointed a finger upwards. Imrahil strode out a few steps from his gate, confusion growing—

The King of Rohan was kissing _his_ daughter on _her_ terrace and in fully plain view. But Imrahil decided he could not be annoyed; not really. It was certainly not for any deception this time, he was sure of it. The entire scene smacked of realness, or he was an oliphaunt's uncle. Even Éomer's newly-apparent sense of dramatics were not _so_ …dramatic.

Imrahil congratulated himself on his daughter making such a match, and returned to his house whistling.


End file.
